Dreadlock Holiday
by AirborneGirl
Summary: Feeling betrayed by his best friends, Matt disappears without a word. Alesha will do anything she can to get him back, even travel to the other side of the world...
1. Chapter 1

**Dreadlock Holiday **

AN: This is a story I've written a few months ago and have forgotten all about. I'm glad I rediscovered it and can now share it with all of you. I hope you enjoy it as well.

**Spoilers:** Set after "Anonymous"

**Disclaimer**: Dick Wolf has his teeth firmly planted in these characters and won't let go. I don't dare mess with the wolf, so he can have them. I'll only play with them. Now, as I always say, on with it…

Normally, you're just like any other working girl; satisfied with your job, but just as glad when the weekend arrives and you can kick back and relax with friends. Or read a book, go see a movie, go shopping…whatever.

But this weekend was slightly different. This weekend has left you worried sick. You've tried to call him. Several times, in fact. His phone was shut off. So far, he hasn't reacted to your numerous messages. You even went as far as to go by his flat, but once outside the building, you suddenly lost the guts to go inside. Perhaps your imagination was getting the better of you, but you didn't want to be the one to walk in on…on what? Well, that's exactly what you did not want to find out.

He was so defeated last Friday. Shoulders hunched and as close to tears as any DS would allow himself to be. Ronnie's mess, though well intended, had left him up for grabs and never before have you been more angry with James than you are now. Guess you can't blame Matt for not answering his phone. You, on your part, haven't answered any calls coming from James. It's not like you to blatantly ignore your peers at the Crown Prosecutor's office. In your job you never know when you're needed for some kind of emergency, but you figure George would have called you personally if anything had happened that required your professional attention. That or simply sent a car to come pick you up.

His call you would always take. Not just because he's your boss and you have a job to keep and the ethics to keep it, but also because he has nothing to do with James's scare tactics in the courtroom. He's not to blame for this mess.

But obviously, Matt thinks you are. When you tried to catch up with him in the courtroom after he was excused and court went into recess, he just whirled around and sneered at you, his normally handsome features contorted into something painful and ugly.

"You could have warned me, Alesha. I thought you would do that as a mate. Apparently I was wrong. You're no friend of mine."

There were so many things you had wanted to say to him. That indeed, you were his mate. More than that, you cared deeply for him, loved him even. And that, had you known, you would have warned him, would have done anything to convince James to let you off easily. But fact of the matter is that you hadn't known and you were just as angry with James for nailing him to the cross as he was.

You had wanted to plead with him not to blame you. You were not the enemy. You were Alesha, his 'Lesh', his mate. The same one who helped him deal with the aftermath of his friend's suicide and the Pandoras box his act had opened up. The same one who had needed his help and unwavering support in the weeks or rather months after your rape. In the recent past, you've always reached out to each other for help and always accepted it with gratitude.

If only he would accept your help now too.

But he hadn't given you a chance. Not at the courthouse, not later, not the entire weekend. Your calls remained unanswered, your concern went by unnoticed.

So yes, you're glad the weekend is over. Although working with James will be difficult for a while, you pride yourself on always being professional on the job and you'll get over the anger eventually. And with the beginning of a new week, you can be sure there'll be new cases to prepare and so at least a visit from DS Ronnie Brooks and DS Matt Devlin to look forward to. Whatever the circumstances, you are looking forward to seeing him again. At least you'll know for sure he hasn't dropped off the face of the earth.

Your morning goes by quietly, with some backed-up paperwork to do, a witness to prepare and files to be completed and put away. Just before lunchtime Ronnie and Natalie show up, which is a little odd since Nat rarely joins her sergeants for a visit. So either they're here for a very high profile case, or she is filling in…

Filling in for Matt.

All your hopes of seeing him, even if just to assess he's okay, fly out of the window. Where is he? Did something happen during the weekend? Have your worries been correct? Should you have gone to see him after all? Oh dear Lord, what if they came in to tell you he's had an accident, or worse, tried to do something to himself?

The look in Natalie's eyes doesn't do anything to quench the sudden ache in your stomach. It's a mixture of concern, pain and hesitance. Especially the last emotion is unwelcome, as the normally so composed DI hardly ever shows anything but quiet resolve.

There must be something seriously wrong with Matt for her to look like this. Almost broken…

Before you can ask the question you're quite sure you don't want to hear the answer to, Ronnie comes up to you, his expression mirroring his boss's. As there doesn't seem to be a way to escape the inevitable, you brace yourself and face him. The weekend has certainly left its mark on the older copper as well, judging by the bags underneath his eyes and the slump of his shoulders.

"Ronnie, Natalie, what's going on? W-where's Matt?"

It's a testimony to the faith you all have in the other that neither of them comments on your stutter, nor the fact that you're trying to forcefully blink away the fearful tears that have sprung into your eyes. All of them know you care deeply about the young DS, perhaps they even know that you've grown to love him far beyond the puppy crush with which it all began years ago. When just his smile made you blush. Well, it still does, if you're honest.

If he were here.

"Alesha…we don't know. He…eh…he never turned up this morning. Nor does he answer either his home phone or his cell phone. He has enough vacation days left, so it's not all that important, but he never reported anything, so officially he's absent without authorization and if he doesn't show up or contact anyone by this time next week, he's in trouble. I can only cover his backside for so long."

It's obvious that Natalie is very upset by her young sergeant's behaviour (if voluntary; but you don't want to think about the other possibility yet) and it's even more clear that Ronnie is wrecked with concern as well as guilt and grief. He and Matt have always been good mates, until Ronnie made a bad judgment call and left Matt hanging out to dry. Unintentionally, of course, but that regretfully doesn't change the fact.

The fact he hasn't shown up for work this morning. For the first time in his career.

Matt's gone missing...

"He's gone? Just like that? But...what...he can't. He can't have just...what...I...he never even said goodbye."

Normally, you're not one to cry easily. You need to remain strong and appear indifferent, at least on the outside. But now, with the realisation that, if the worst case scenario should come true, you might never get to see him again, that the last words exchanged between the two of you were bitter and angry, you can't and won't hold back your tears. The man you love walked out on his friends, angry with them and his surroundings...it's enough reason for an emotional breakdown, right?

Nat hands you a tissue and then another one as the first one gets soaked within seconds. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you see James walking by on his way to his office, but one stern look from Natalie tells him he's not to impose right now.

After all, unreasonable as it may be, she's also quite mad at the Senior Crown prosecutor for coming down so hard on one of her detectives. Sure, Ronnie might be the reason Matt was put in this situation in the first place, but if Ronnie's responsible for Matt's predicament, than James is equally responsible for your pain, since he never got you involved in preparing the young DS as a witness, never letting you in on his strategy.

Thanks to him, Matt now thinks you're a traitor.

That thought alone takes a third tissue.

Knowing that there's nothing either one of them can do to soften the blow, both Ron and Nat leave you to yourself, after an obligatory visit to James and George. It's the latter who tentatively steps into your office somewhat (you have lost your sense of time) later, tactful enough to let you dry your tears first. With a knowing, almost fatherly smile, he tells you to go home.

"Take the rest of the day off, Alesha. In fact, why don't you take the week. You have plenty of leave days left and we don't have any cases James can't handle on his own."

The name of his Senior Crown Prosecutor comes out with some vehemence, so you gather that George is not as unaware of the strained relationship between his people as you imagined he would be. You should have known better. Your boss is a very perceptive man.

You also know better than to argue his 'offer'. Giving him a curt nod and a watery smile as something resembling a thank-you, you shut off your computer, file away your paperwork and take your coat and purse.

It's not even lunchtime yet and you're wandering the streets of London, just as busy as any other day, yet lacking its lustre, its sparkle. Like he's taken it with him when he left.

Why you're suddenly sure he's no longer in the city, you can't tell. It's a gut feeling you immediately trust is true. Unwelcome, but true nonetheless.

At any other time, with the knowledge of a week to yourself to look forward to, you would have enjoyed yourself by roaming around town, playing tourist, seeing the sites, visiting museums, do some shopping, you know, ordinary things.

Not today. Your heart's not in it. The only thing you desperately want to do is go home, take a long hot bath (while trying to talk yourself out of drowning yourself in it), eat everything in your house that contains chocolate, then pull the covers on your bed over your head and sleep until someone wakes you to tell you this has all been one horrible dream and that he's never really left at all.

Guess what? After two more days of that, nobody has shown up to give you the good news, but at least someone comes over to wake you from your almost destructive state of hibernation. That person is Ronnie.

As you open the door on that Wednesday afternoon, you're not surprised by the expression on his face. You don't need a mirror to know you must look a fright, since you haven't showered, haven't washed your hair, haven't changed out of your pyjamas (though yes, you have changed your underwear; you don't want to get any kind of infection which then ultimately gets you back into a gynaecologist's chair) and have hardly eaten since your Monday afternoon chocolate binge, so there must be some weight loss too. All in all, not a pretty look.

It's only a small consolation that your visitor doesn't look that much better.

"Can I come in, love?"

Reluctantly, since it doesn't look like he's the bearer of any good news, you take a step back to let him in. Quickly, you survey the room, but it doesn't look all that bad; just a little dusty perhaps. No evidence of your total emotional meltdown in here. You've mainly used the bedroom and bathroom the last two days anyway.

Common hospitality clicking back into place, you offer your unexpected guest something to drink. He settles on tea and you're happy with that. Anything more elaborate than boiling water and putting a tea bag in it is beyond you, the kitchen not very welcoming after your negligence of the past few days.

With two steaming mugs you come back and tentatively sit down next to him. He accepts his hot drink with a smile and for a few moments, you just sit there, lost in your own musings, though the object of both your and Ronnie's thoughts must surely be one and the same. Always...Matt.

After a few careful sips, Ronnie starts.

"So...has he been in touch with you?"

You give him such a reproachful look that he quickly recoils.

"Sorry, love. Didn't mean to hurt you. Just kind of hoped he would have, since none of us have heard from him either. I left several messages on his phone, but so far he hasn't answered. The gov wants to try one more time to find out anything about his whereabouts before she files a missing persons report and before she has to let the higher authorities know what's going on. He could lose his job over this, if he's left voluntarily."

"Well, what are we to do?"

Ronnie finishes his drink and urges you to drink yours.

"WE are going to break into Sunshine's flat and see if we can find out anything."

"Break in? You're asking a prosecutor to act as an accessory to an unauthorized police search?"

Ron tries to look indignant, but he's clearly relieved you're joking with him, though you're not sure you are. Yet...if it's the only way to find out anything about what has happened to the man you love, you're willing to handle the crowbar yourself. And Ronnie knows it.

"Nothing as dramatic as that, love. He gave me his spare key and the code to his alarm ages ago and I still have it. So I guess if we just go see to it that he's made some arrangements for his mail, his plants, his cat...see, nothing wrong with that, right?"

No, well, yes. But...no, you can't.

Can you?

"I'll go change."

Twenty minutes later, after the fastest shower and change of your life, the two of you set out in Ronnie's car to head over to Matt's flat. Thanks to Ronnie's key, you get in without a hustle. Now all you have to do is sniff around for clues. At least one of you knows how this works. Still, he seems a little hesitant. This is not a suspect's home after all, where he can ransack the interior and not bother with being careful because a piece of paper gives him permission. This is the home of a man you both care deeply for, a man whose welfare you're very worried about, but also a man whose privacy you really shouldn't disturb, no matter how panicked you get.

Soon enough though, the desire to at least know something more about his sudden disappearance wins it from the hesitation and you actually manage to get further inside than just over the threshold.

Matt's flat turns out to be your typical bachelors pad. A comfy leather couch, big-screen TV mounted to the white plastered wall, DVD-player and game console, discs of various kinds strewn about, a bookcase crammed with detective novels (Matt loves to read?), some more serious study-books, cookbooks (he can cook too?) and the lot, a couple of framed pictures in between (one of his mother and sister, one of the team, one of him and you at last year's Christmas party), but all in all, nothing to indicate where the owner is. In the kitchen, you find a day-planner stuck to the wall and small reminder notes of things to do and groceries to buy pinned on the fridge with funny magnets. But again, no clues you desperately need. Except maybe the fact that his cat's litter box and food and drink bowls are cleaned up, and no cat in sight.

Once again, you hesitate when you're about to enter his bedroom, the inner sanctuary of any person. Often enough have you fantasized about what it would be like to wake up in the same bed with DS Devlin, not to mention what would happen before you went to sleep, warm, comfortable and very, very satisfied in his arms...it's just the knowledge that several other women have had that privilege while you, so far, are only looking at that specific 'crime scene' while trespassing, that gets to you now.

And of course Matt's not that promiscuous, it's not like there's another willing body in his bed every single day or even every single weekend, but still, he's hardly a monk either. And surely you're not the only one melting at a mere glance from his baby blues.

Ronnie follows you in, not commenting on your obvious reluctance, just squeezing your shoulder as he passes to rummage through his partner's belongings.

His wardrobe seems to be intact as far as the business suits are concerned, but there seem to be several pairs of jeans missing and probably some shirts too. His underwear drawer is also emptied out, according to Ronnie that is...you're too embarrassed by the thought alone to go through there.

The annex bathroom shows an empty toothbrush glass, and several items like his razor and aftershave missing. His scent still lingers in there and you allow yourself a deep inhalation. For one brief moment, it brings you closer to him. You've always loved his scent and secretly enjoy that he tends to use a little more of it than necessary. Okay...a lot more. More often than not, you smell him way before he enters your office. It never fails to make you jittery in anticipation.

Your partner in this unauthorized house search has moved on to the small study, hoping to find anything in the younger man's paperwork.

Nothing...simply nothing. No clues scribbled on a notepad, no print-outs of booking confirmations or flight schedules. His laptop is missing, so he must have taken it with him, but since half his clothes have been taken and the cat's gone missing too, he must really be at least out of the city, as you have suspected all along.

The thought that he feels you're part of the reason he's left hurts you so much at that moment you're gasping for breath. If Ronnie has noticed anything in your demeanour, he's tactful enough not to comment on it, other than another squeeze to your shoulder. He too is still consumed by guilt.

At last, when he's checking out a notepad Matt has left next to the phone, you finally get your clue. In old fashioned style, he rubs a pencil over the imprints of the last note Matt has written on it. Hardly readable, it seems to have a date and time and the text 'take cat to Niamh' on it.

Niamh. The penny drops. Niamh. His sister. The one member of the family he's still close to. The only person he would have entrusted the care of his pet to.

And the only one who might know where he is.

A call to Natalie (who doesn't ask any questions since she's sure she doesn't want to know the answers) confirms that Niamh is Matt's emergency contact and as such, has her contact information listed. After some wheedling, you pen down an address and phone number in Birmingham.

Damn. That'll take you at least three hours, well, two and a half if the traffic's mild. But you know, the moment you have written the address down, you have to go. This little piece of paper is the first step to getting Matt back and for that, you're willing to travel to the end of the universe.

So…Like? Don't like. Either way, I'd like to know. Thanks for the trouble…


	2. Chapter 2

**Dreadlock Holiday, chapter 2**

**A/N:** I know, I know, I've been neglecting my duties toward you again. But I'm back and I hope you'll be back too. Thanks for your positive reviews.

**Disclaimer**: Sadly, I haven't been able to get myself written into Dick Wolfe's will. So they're not even mine when he dies…

_So…on with the show…_

The next morning, you get behind the wheel of Natalie's car, who immediately offered the use of it, already anticipating your impromptu travel. In all honesty, you're a little at a loss at first. You do have a license, but since you live in the centre of one of the busiest cities in Europe, you mostly take the tube, making you hardly an experienced driver. So sitting behind the wheel for the first time in months, not knowing exactly where you're going and anxious about the outcome of your unexpected visit, a wave of panic washes over you and your hands are trembling too hard to put the key into the ignition.

Finally, after three botched attempts, you get the darn thing to start and head off in the direction the GPS system tells you to.

Thank God traffic is mild and the detached voice points you the right way, so in two hours and 45 minutes (including one coffee/bathroom break) you pull up in front of the house you were looking for. With jelly legs you get out, trying to convince yourself it's just because you've been sitting in the car for so long. And that of course is also the cause of your again trembling hands, with the new addition of sweaty palms.

It's a nice, clean suburb and as you approach the front door, your nerves subside a little. This friendly looking neighbourhood certainly couldn't do you any harm and if Niamh is anything like her brother...

...then she might also believe you're at least partially to blame for his pain.

And now you're shaking worse than a Chihuahua on speed.

Still, it's the only chance you have and you'll take it. You don't care if you have to take part of the blame, if only, once you've told your part of the story, she's willing to help you. You're willing to say anything, do anything. Even tell the truth.

Heaving a big sigh to get the trembling under control, you reach out and ring the bell, forcing yourself to stand still and not run. Just as you're about to turn away, half relieved that nobody seems to be home, you hear someone run down the stairs. One moment later, a panting, female version of Matt Devlin is looking at you curiously. Really, the resemblance is scary.

"So sorry to keep you waiting. I was cleaning out the attic. What can I do for you?"

Good. Nice, polite beginning. No hostility. So far.

"Hi. I'm Alesha. Alesha Phillips. I work with your brother. You're Matt's sister, I presume?"

"Yes I am. Please, come in."

You're invited into a sunny kitchen, where Niamh is already busying herself with putting on the kettle. Instant guilt grips you again. You're now not only a trespasser, you're also about to harass a perfectly innocent woman into giving you details about her equally innocent brother's whereabouts, after he's gone to Heaven knows where just to get away from you.

Something brushes against your legs and, slightly yelping in surprise, you cast a quick look underneath the table. A slim, black and white cat is giving you a stern eye, considering your presence in its room and whether it cares enough to challenge you.

Since it calmly walks by you in search of food, it seems like you're accepted. For now.

"Do you mind the cat? We're having it here as a guest and shouldn't let it go outside in unfamiliar territory, but if you're allergic, I can put it in another room."

So it's Matt's cat. You thought it might be. Quickly, you shake your head.

"No, I love cats."

"I hope you don't mind having a drink in the kitchen. We're redecorating and the place is a mess."

"Oh no, of course not. I'm just..." your explanation fizzles out as you have no idea how to finish.

"Just what?"

Like her brother apparently, Niamh's not good at dropping the subject. Thinking hard about what you wanted to say, you carefully proceed.

"I guess I'm surprised at your hospitality, assuming Matt has told you about what happened in court last Friday. I never once thought you'd be willing to even speak to me on the doorstep."

Niamh hands you a mug of tea and places a tray of biscuits on the table in front of you. You wait for her to take a seat at the kitchen table. After a sip of the hot liquid, she answers.

"He has told me and I have to admit: if you had you come to our door last Saturday, I think I would have tried to strangle you. He was so defeated, so sad, I've never seen him that way. But I've had some time to think it all through and even though I still think he was treated very dishonestly, I know it wasn't meant to be personal."

"It really wasn't and believe me, it hurt me so much to see him defeated like that."

"The only thing I don't understand miss Phillips..."

"Oh please, it's Alesha."

"Very well. Just call me Niamh then. But as I was saying, what I don't understand is why, if you're such a good friend of my brother's, you didn't even try to warn him, at least it would have enabled him to prepare himself. I think the unexpectedness, the sudden cruelty of it all weighed heavier on his shoulders than the accusations themselves."

You wince, since that was what you were afraid of. As a copper, being bashed was nothing new to either Matt or Ronnie, but the fact his ability was being questioned by his friends, his peers, the people he trusted...of course that would knock him off his feet. And there's no excuse, except...

"Oh, Niamh, please believe me. I had no idea. I knew the strategy was to show the difference of opinion between Ronnie and Matt and how the first one came to his actions, but I never suspected James would go as far as to nail Matt to the cross and making him out to be a sloppy officer. Had I known he would follow that path, I would have done anything to protect your brother. Really anything."

Without warning, tears of suppressed anger at your boss and his vehement, unjustified approach, fill your eyes and you wonder if Niamh doesn't think you're just a bad actress showing some crocodile tears at her brother's expense.

Instead, you feel a small warm hand cover your own and the carbon copy of a pair of familiar, baby blue eyes look at you kindly.

"My brother is an idiot."

The statement is so unexpected you burst out in a nervous laugh. What does she mean? You feel the sudden urge to defend him, tell this insolent slip of a girl that her brother is, in fact, a wonderful man and that you've been the idiots by doing this to him.

Yet, before you open your mouth, she continues to elaborate on her statement.

"When he came to see me last Saturday morning, he was in a right state. He blamed all of you for something and you personally for not coming to his aid."

Well that was nothing new. She has mentioned this before, only just now. Is she trying to make you feel even guiltier? Is that even possible? And she's not nearly being done, apparently.

"He said that he always thought you were his friend and that you cared as deeply for him as he does for you. Now I can see he's an idiot. You don't have any friendly feelings for him, do you?"

Outraged, you stand, not caring about the chair hitting the floor with a loud crash, not even registering the noise as the ringing in your ears absorb everything else. How dare she draw those kind of unfounded, painful conclusions about your feelings for Matt? What does she know? And how the hell are you supposed to find out where he is now?

"Whoa, please, Alesha, let me finish. All I'm trying to say is that this whole friendship thing between the two of you is just a front you both keep up. Underneath, there's a lot more to it, am I right?"

Totally confused now, you pick up the chair and sit back on it, your shaking heavier than before.

"I...I don't know what you mean."

"I'm sure you do, but just to be safe, I'll spell it out for you. Like I spelled it out for him too: You're in love with my brother. And I'm quite certain he's in love with you too."

There's no defence left; no argument to be won. As in court, once the plain and simple truth is revealed, the suspect remains silent in defeat. So, as a confession, you can only nod. Yes, you're deeply in love with Matt Devlin. You have been for a long time and you need him in your life. You need to get him back. As in right now.

Your spirits lifted slightly by Niamh's warmth toward you, you now dare to ask the one question you came here for.

"Niamh...do you happen to know where he is?"

"Of course I do. He always tells me where he is."

Darn it all, she doesn't elaborate.

"So...can you tell me?"

She sighs now, turning quite serious again.

"I could, but I'm just not sure I should. I mean...he counts on me to keep his privacy. Perhaps it's better to just let him be for a while. He'll be back when he's ready."

"But I can't wait that long!" you burst out in tears again.

Niamh doesn't interrupt as you start ranting, desperate to get your point across. Using all your court experience to persuade her to do the right thing (by you) and for once, break the promise to her big brother, you blindly rush ahead. Your closing statement should change this one woman jury's verdict.

"I'm sorry Niamh, I just don't think I can wait that long. All this time he's away he thinks we don't care, that I don't care. And then, when he comes back and we haven't done anything to try and make up to him in the meantime, he'll be even more convinced and then he might never want to see me again. Niamh, I have to convince him now. I have to try and talk to him, to tell him how sorry I am for what happened, to tell him..."

Niamh relents. With another reassuring pat on your arm, she steps away from the kitchen table and leaves the room, only to come back several minutes later carrying a laptop under her arm. Clicking all the wires and accessories into place, the thing soon whirrs to life. You don't have to ask her what she's doing; you already know that within a few minutes, you'll be getting at least some answers.

And indeed, with some additional clicks, two different confirmation sheets open on screen, one telling you that Mr. Matthew Daniel Devlin has booked a flight to Norman Manley International Airport, Kingston, Jamaica, and the other one confirming the rental of a small cabin on a beach resort. At your request, Kate opens the link on the second sheet and the home page of the resort appears. It looks sunny and tropical and you don't have to wonder why he's chosen that particular place to get away from it all. It's just that...did he really feel the need to fly halfway across the globe to get away from you? Did you really hurt him so badly that he didn't even want to be on the same continent?

Okay...your first question (where is he?) has been answered...now what?

"When is his return flight?"

Niamh checks. "Two weeks from next Friday."

That's too long, really it is.

Again, Niamh doesn't wait for your next move. Before you know what she's up to, she's opened a search engine and is browsing through a list of available flights from all airports in or near London.

"Niamh...what are you doing?"

She looks at you like you've just grown a second head and she can't choose which one of it is slower.

"Well, you said you couldn't wait that long, so I'm trying to check when the next plane to Kingston leaves and if they're any seats available."

Wow, she certainly knows how to take action. So like her brother.

At last she finds a direct flight leaving tomorrow afternoon (gulp!) from Gatwick and though you wince at the price, a quick check of your savings account tells you there is enough left to book it.

You know it's a leap of faith. He might still be angry, he might think you're invading his privacy, he might not care enough about you to come back. Heck, he might not care enough to acknowledge your care for him, despite of what his sister thinks. In the end, this might backfire with nothing gained and so much more lost than just the money for the airfare.

Still, it's better than the uncertainty you live in now. These days of doing nothing, not knowing anything, this restlessness...it is torture.

So there's really nothing to decide, is there? If you win him, you win him. But if you have to lose him, you prefer to do so quickly. It's always less painful if you rip off a bandage with one swift move.

"Book it."

"There are only first class tickets left and they're pretty expensive."

"Don't care. Book it."

To show your determination, you take out your passport and credit card. A few more mouse clicks later and a little more than a few hundred pounds poorer, you're set to go. E-ticket is printed, forms are filled and all you have to do is go home and pack. Since Niamh's a registered nurse at a local hospital, she calls ahead and pulls in some favours to get you vaccinated. You'd almost forgotten about those.

With a hug and a thank you, you say goodbye to Matt's sister, feeling like you've gained a friend and an important ally.

"Stay in touch, Alesha. Whatever happens, let me know. I hope things work out between you and Matt. He deserves a good woman like you."

"Thanks...for everything. I feel so relieved just to know that I'm taking action."

"I know that feeling. Have a safe drive home and a good flight, okay?"

You're exhausted by the time you get home later that evening after bringing the car back to Natalie's and accepting a cup of tea from her. Your arm is sore from the injections. Still, you can't go to bed yet. There's some packing left to do and you just can't decide on what to take with you. Filling your large suitcase seems presumptuous. You've booked an open-ended ticket, ready for any scenario; just in case your little mission fails. In that unfortunate situation it seems foolish to drag half your summer wardrobe along with you.

Finally, after some serious inner debate, you decide on your smallest suitcase, taking only the bare necessities, some underwear, toiletries and sundresses. Once your mind is made up, you're packed in less than fifteen minutes.

Checking your watch to make sure it's not too late in the evening to bother anyone, you decide that it's not and quickly call James. Determinedly and formally you inform him of your plans and request another two weeks off work. In these circumstances, it's clear he doesn't dare refuse, so he only wishes you luck. At least it sounds sincere. James might be a pit-bull in court, he can be quite humane in private and you know he deeply regrets what he thought he had to do, though he would do it again without hesitation. That's the enigma that is James Steel. And it makes it hard to forgive him too.

The moment you hang up, your phone rings again. You jump a little in surprise, then smile in relief when the caller ID tells you it's Ronnie, who wants to know what you found out. When you tell the older DS what you're up to, he's only too happy to help in any way, insisting to bring you to Gatwick airport the next morning as well as taking care of your plants and mail and even almost offering to 'compensate you for the costs in trying to right his wrong'. With a laugh, you accept the first two offers and decline the last. Poor Ronnie, he's definitely miserable without his 'Sunshine'.

All things settled, you decide to go to bed early, even though you know it'll probably take you ages to fall asleep, with so many thoughts fighting for dominance in your tired brain.

Surprisingly, you're apparently tired enough to order your conflicting thoughts to seize fire for the moment and you fall asleep as soon as your head hits the pillow.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** Since you wanted me to update this story sooner, I decided to grant you your wish. I love it when people love my stories enough to let me know, so here's for my loyal readers. With love.

**Disclaimer**: Not mine. Dick Wolf is standing behind me making me say this. He doesn't like to share. Yet, in my dreams, Matt's mine. Mine, I say!

Oh well…

In the morning, your packed little case immediately reminds you of your spur of the moment planning and you kind of start to panic. You can't even hope for the best, only expect the worst. But you haven't thought of buying a cancelation insurance, so if you don't go, you'll have put a nice sum of money down the drain and literally gotten nowhere. And even if you can afford it; you're not an idiot who just blows those amounts of currency to pieces just because you lost your nerves.

So by the time Ronnie arrives to take you to Gatwick, you've done some yoga and taken a nice stiff drink and you're sufficiently calmed down to close off your apartment and give the keys to your voluntary driver.

Saying goodbye to the anxious older detective, checking in your meagre luggage and going through customs all goes by in a blur and only when you're on the plane, listening to the instructions by the cabin crew, do you allow yourself to let it all sink in.

You're on your way to a tropical island to declare your love to a man you've hurt and who might not want to forgive you yet. And even if he does, he might still not feel the same way and then what have you gained?

All your resolve, everything you've so carefully told yourself, now flies out the window, but since that's not the only thing flying, you're trapped and there's no turning back.

The flight itself is uneventful. You don't move from your chair unless absolutely necessary and as your stomach is tied up in hundreds of painful knots, you hardly benefit from the many perks of flying first class, like actually edible food. The only thing you want to do is touch down, retrieve your belongings, get the hell out of the airport and find Matt. For better or worse, whatever the outcome, you want it to be over.

After nearly eleven hours you land at Norman Manley International Airport and after yet another hour of patiently waiting in line for the usual customs checks, you drag your little suitcase out into slightly clammy Jamaican evening. It's about eight-thirty and back home it's the middle of the night, but, so close to your destination, you couldn't care less about your jet-lag. A uniformed man flags down a taxi for you and not permitting yourself any hesitation, you give the address of Matt's chosen resort. You'll sort out which one is his cabin when you get there.

Generously, you tip the driver and wait for the resort's valet to help you with your luggage. Surely you can roll in the lightweight trolley yourself, but what else are these people here for? They need the tips about as much as they need their pay check. Only when you're standing in front of the reception desk does it occur to you that you haven't booked a cabin in advance and you're not sure if and for how long you'll need one. If everything goes the way you hope it will, you and Matt will patch up your friendship at the very least and you can ask him to let you stay with him. If not, you'll have to check the first available flight back to London and stay only one or two nights tops.

Thank God the high season hasn't started yet and there are several cabins vacant. You book for two nights in advance and ask for possibilities for prolonging. After having been assured there won't be any problem with that (how come they can make anything sound like it's no problem?), you get your keys and the same valet now brings you to your cabin in a small golf cart.

Once inside, you tip the kind man and close the door behind you, surveying your surroundings. The adrenaline that has kept you going is rapidly wearing off and for the first time since you've gotten on the plane do you allow your body to relax. It's no use to go looking for Matt now that you're a complete mess, so it might be better if you just relax and enjoy this little impromptu vacation.

You literally let your hair down, take a small bottle of pre-mixed rum and coke from the mini-bar and take it to the luxurious bathroom, where you fill the tub almost to the brim with hot water, adding a royal dose of vanilla perfumed bath oil. Sipping the cool drink in the hot tub is pure heaven on your tired aching ligaments and only when the water cools off to less than lukewarm, do you get out and wrap your pruned, wrinkled self in a fluffy bathrobe with the resort's logo printed on it.

Being jetlagged and downtrodden by the usual airport hubbub, you kind of expected that you'd be dead to the world by the time you settled into the very comfy looking queen size bed, its mattress firm but not hard, the covers crispy white and looking clean. You smother a small grin when your mind recollects a particular memory of Matt joking about the state of his own mattress after a particularly icky explanation from Teddy the lab tech. The look on Ronnie's face had been priceless, but you had felt yourself starting to blush as somehow Matt made his innocent quip sound like an open invitation to come check for yourself...you should have taken him up on it.

As one memory triggers another, sleep eludes you and a funny kind of restlessness takes over. Looking at the alarm clock on one of the nightstands, you can tell that it's eleven by now and knowing Matt, it means he's still out there somewhere. But where?

On the beach? At the resort's bar? At a nightclub or some party?

In his cabin? Entertaining a lady?

The idea causes you to shudder, mostly because the possibility might not be that farfetched. He's a gorgeous man, a flirt by nature and he's come here to get away from the strains of his London existence. And just because so far you've managed to repress the sickening idea that he might have a holiday fling, that doesn't mean it can't happen. Or that it's not happening at this very moment.

Well, there's no way sleep will come now. Might as well get up and enjoy the balmy Jamaican nightlife. Quickly you dress yourself in one of the very few non-office outfits you own; a royal blue, spaghetti strapped summer dress dotted with sunflowers and some sandals to match. Taking a vest just in case there's a chill, you grab your purse and cabin key-card and head out.

Being alone means that ugly thoughts take over and though you're not much in the mood for company either, it's still preferable to your own confusion. And since you've already started with one cocktail, you might as well get some more. Perhaps a nice little alcohol buzz might help you get some sleep later on.

The resort's cocktail bar with its open terrace, lit torches and twinkling fairy lights is teeming with lively tourists and the ever relaxed Rastafarian locals. Steel drums (what's in a name, huh?) are playing a swinging reggae tune and though it's all very touristy and very cliché, it still makes you smile as you walk over to the bar and order yourself another rum-coke. It is served with a slice of lemon, a little paper umbrella and a charming broad white-teethed smile from the bartender, trying his hardest to mimic Tom Cruise in a scene from Cocktail. Or perhaps the actor took lessons from this man, as he's actually pretty good.

With a smile of your own, you take the drink from him and sip on it, wincing at its strength. Real Jamaican rum definitely has a kick in it. But it does hit the sore spot with the accuracy of a guided missile, making you feel instantly relaxed, which is what this island is all about, right?

Right. You're here now, might as well make the most of it.

Automatically, your hips have started to sway to the easy rhythm of the music and you scan the crowd just for fun...

And that's when your heart stops.

Matt, not even five metres away from you, swinging with a skinny brunette on the makeshift dance floor. He's wearing jeans and a tight, body hugging white t-shirt, shamelessly showing off his sculpted arm muscles, which the tramp (whoops) has noticed too since she has her blood red painted talons all over him.

He however doesn't seem to have any qualms about that. In fact, he looks like he's having a blast. His movements are fluid, his face intent upon hers and your heart shatters at the sight of the flirty, downright lusty smile he throws in her direction.

Matt Devlin does not intend to spend the night alone...

The sight is more than you can bear and your first instinct is to run as fast as you can, away from the grime scene. Yet your feet seem to be frozen to the ground beneath you and you can't move, can't even tear away your gaze from the horrible little display.

When at last you do move, you wobble to a vacated barstool and inelegantly drop down on it, shaking from head to toe as the first tears break down through the dam. Never before have you felt this foolish. What on earth made you believe Niamh when she confirmed her brother's feelings toward you? What made you unforgivably stupid enough to think that all you had to do was follow him to the other side of the planet like some crazy lovesick adolescent groupie and that, upon the mere sight of you, he would come running back, proclaim his undying devotion to you and the two of you would ride off into the tropical sunset?

You stupid, stupid, horribly naive, stupid woman!

Ignoring the curious, worried looks of the bartender and some of the guests around you, you finally force yourself to slide off the stool, gather your things and stalk away. The tears are obscuring your vision though and you manage to bump into several people on your walk of shame out.

Almost there, you almost make it. Almost. Another bump, a hand on your shoulder to steady you. You even mumble a mandatory thank you, before...

"Alesha?"

Great. Just damn wonderful.

Now what to do? Be flippant ("Hey Matt, fancy meeting you here, what a coincidence!")? Sure, like he'd fall for that. Be clingy ("Please, please come home. We need you. I need you.")? No. He can't see your despair, not now, not under these circumstances.

There's only one thing left to do. And when the inevitable question comes, you're back to being calm. Heartbroken, but outwardly steady. Fingers crossed you can keep it up long enough to make some sort of a dignified escape, before breaking down...there were at least four more bottles of rum-coke left in the mini-bar.

"Lesh...what are you doing here?"

There's surprise in his voice, but also a trace of hurt and betrayal. You've punctured his balloon of mindless happiness, entered his sanctuary and he's rightfully disturbed by it. In this state, any explanation would fall short. Looking him straight in the confused blue orbs, taking in all the beauty of his expressive face, you mentally say goodbye to the dream of the two of you.

It's all over.

"Making a mistake. Sorry Matt, go back to your date. Just...just pretend you've never seen me."

"But...what..."

"Goodbye, Matt Devlin."

As you walk away, head held high, you wonder why you added his last name. Perhaps because it made it sound more distant, less attached, as if a veil of formality protects you from the worst of the pain, though you can't imagine that getting any better any time soon.

The path back to your cabin is mostly unlit and though you don't particularly feel unsafe, you're not really at ease either. On a whim, you decide not to lock yourself in already, changing your direction to the resort's private beach instead. It's almost deserted, with only a few love struck couples taking a romantic walk. It's hard to watch them and not be envious of their happiness, but since they leave you alone, you can turn your back on them and just sit down and watch the stars, which is exactly what you do.

It's so beautiful and romantic, it immediately opens your inner taps again. This is what loneliness means; this total bleak desperation with nothing good or bad on the horizon. Nothing to look forward to except for trying to glue the pieces of your life back together.

You can picture what will happen now. You'll take the next flight out of here, fly home, take a few days to lick your wounds and then go back to work, bracing yourself for the moment Matt Devlin walks back into your office, your life, your heart. It'll be awkward and sad; nearly impossible to cope with seeing him only as a DS, but not a mate. Not someone you can openly care about, laugh with, even flirt with. But that's all that's left for you to do.

That or receiving the news he's not coming back at all, in which case his replacement is going to regret the day he decided to become a copper. You just can't imagine becoming friends with whoever has the nerve to think he can take the place of the legendary DS Devlin. Not in your book.

Perhaps you yourself should quit. Leave all the painful memories behind, move away to a place where nothing reminds you constantly of him. Surely, there must be other places you can work at, other things you can do. But the harder you try, the clearer it becomes that there's no way you can walk away from the career you've built for yourself; from the job you love so much, from the satisfaction you feel after another case won, another criminal put behind bars, another victim vindicated. You've worked too hard for too long with too little means to turn your back on that. It's not the promise you made to yourself when you enrolled into Law School.

No, it's Matt you should blame for this. Damn him! Damn Matt Devlin and his handsome looks, his smile, his quirks, his charm, his overall niceness. Damn him to hell and back for making you love him and then not taking that love, staking his claim.

Why doesn't he love you back?

With your arms wrapped around your pulled up legs and your head resting on your knees, you surrender yourself to the upcoming tidal wave of tears. In the morning, you'll pull yourself together, but for now, your pain has to have its way out.

In your current state of mind it's hard to let the rest of the world in and all your senses are numbed. So for at least a few seconds you don't notice someone approaching you, gingerly settling down next to you on the sand and then very carefully placing a feather light kiss on your bare shoulder.

"Forgive me, Alesha. I'm so sorry..."

...What?


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** 100000x sorry for letting you wait for sooo long. Life in general threw me some curveballs, but order has been restored, so I can pick up my story again. Thanks for baring with me. So this is for the loyal readers out there.

This chapter is a bit different from the others. I decided to give Matt a penny for his thoughts and he took me up on it. So here's his side of the story so far.

**Disclaimer**: I toy with their minds on paper, with Matt's body in my wild fantasies (which I won't share with you), but at the end of the day, a legal document will prove they're not mine…oh well…on with the story…

Interlude: Matt

You can't believe your eyes. Whatever is in the rum you've been drinking, it's causing you to hallucinate, because you could have sworn that the lady on the stool at the bar is Alesha Phillips.

But why would she be here and why the hell are you even thinking about the possibility? And why oh why does your heart start to slam faster in your chest at the mere thought?

You had thought it would have stopped by now, this constant, aching need to be close to her. Stopped because she has betrayed you, left you to dry after a case that should never have gone haywire in the first place. And though you could never blame her as much as you blame James Steel, you can't seem to shake the anger you feel altogether. If only she would have informed you, prepared you somehow...

It was the unexpectedness of it all. You'd never thought her capable of using you as means to an end, as collateral damage, a pawn in her game. After all you've meant for each other, helping and supporting the other one through her rape and your friend's suicide; you'd expected more from her. Instead you got stabbed in the back. Twice. First by your partner and friend. And then by the woman you openly regard as a friend but secretly love as so very much more.

When you arrived here three days ago, it was in the high hopes that the tropical surroundings, the sun, the ocean and the laid back attitude of the people here would somehow lull your senses, so that you would stop thinking of every single event that had led you to your current desolate state of mind. And for a while, it did. You managed to erase James's look of contempt from your mind, Ronnie's pathetic attempt at cheering you up. And the total absence of any comment, any kind of support from Alesha.

What you couldn't get out of your mind were images of the woman herself. Many, many times, while you were trying to relax by the pool, or taking a dive in the clear water of the Caribbean Sea, your thoughts would irrevocably drift back to her...her petite, slender body you've always secretly appreciated, even if she is modest in her choice of clothing; always appropriate for the office...her full lips, slightly pouty and always ready to be kissed...her big black eyes which convey so much warmth and compassion, but which can suddenly sparkle with good humour or burn with flashes of anger and determination too...her thick silky hair you simply want to run your hands through...she, to you is a vision to behold.

And you would never mistake any local beauty, as pretty as they were, for her.

Still, no, it can't be her. It would be preposterous to think she would care enough about you to follow you this far just to...to what exactly? Apologize? Proclaim her love for you? You sigh again, you really should stop the drinking if this is what it does to you. After all, there's still this pretty brunette you're dancing with who might just be into more than a little dancing if you play your cards right. And if you can stop the thoughts from drifting to the image of a beautiful woman with bee stung lips, doe eyes and honey soft skin.

Besides, the only one who knows where you are (always knows where you are; that's the deal the two of you made even as children, the one deal you'll never get yourself to break) is Niamh and you carefully instructed your sister not to tell a soul. You refuse to believe she's broken that promise.

Firmly shaking any thoughts about home and work and betrayal and pain away, you turn on the charm again and send the guaranteed to work smile to Crissy...Holly...Candy...eh...the brunette. No, you're not deliberately forgetting her name, but tonight you simply don't want to care. Knowing this lady by name makes her more real and you need the dream more than the reality of a woman with actual feelings and demands. It's Jamaica, it's far away from home and you're a free man. You can do whatever the hell you want with any girl as long as she's an adult and it's consensual. And there's no reason to assume it's not, even if her judgement is partly clouded by her one too many Cosmopolitan. Not with the way she looks at you, gyrates her hips against yours in an attempt to excite you.

Only...you're not excited. Not even close.

The image of the Alesha lookalike is still firmly imprinted on your mind and you can't shake the thought there's more to it. And like picking on a scab of an old wound, you know you shouldn't, but can't help yourself. So with an excuse, you turn away from Crissy, Holly, whatshername and glance in the general direction of the bar, where the girl was spotted last.

She's not there and you didn't expect her to be. Still wanting to make sure you're not going stark raving mad (if that's not too late already), you push a way to the throng of people on the crowded dance floor. As you reach the place you've seen her last, you bump into someone. On instinct you grab the woman's shoulder and look down...

It's her.

"Alesha?"

You're not going insane. You're really not.

Now what to do? How do you address the last person you expected to see here, except maybe for Ronnie? What do you say to the woman you're so angry with you can hardly see straight, yet so in love with you can't just move away from her?

Her demeanour shows uncertainty and pain. Her face is ashen underneath her naturally tan skin, her eyes are wide and panicky. Like an innocent animal about to be slaughtered. It almost kills you to realize that right now, you scare her. That she's looking at you the same way she looked at Merrick after that fateful day in his practice. Yet, before your very eyes she transforms, calming herself with a cool, admirable determination.

"Lesh...what are you doing here?"

Even if you're not sure you want to hear the answer, even if you can tell she won't just fall into your arms and break down, you have to know if there's even the slightest possibility she hasn't come as a messenger of James or Ronnie, conveying their apologies as some kind of negotiator. You won't be fooled by that.

You just want her to be here for you.

"Making a mistake. Sorry Matt, go back to your date. Just...just pretend you've never seen me."

Sure, because you've just gone half mad making yourself believe you only HAD pretended to see her. Can this get any more confusing?

"But...what..."

"Goodbye, Matt Devlin."

With that sudden...finality she shrugs off your hand and walks away, pride in her motions, like some kind of African Goddess. For one moment, you don't want anything more than to follow her, stop her, gather her in your arms and promise her you'll never leave her behind again.

But your mother tried to raise you as a gentleman and so you make your way back to the brunette, only to find out she's already chatting up some other bloke. Oh well so much for your mum's correct upbringing; at least it saves you from the ultimate humiliation of not being able to perform on a one night stand you never planned to have in the first place. Looking closely, she's not all that pretty anyway, not to you. Your standards are a lot different these days, thanks to the one lady you are desperate to find.

Yet, she's nowhere to be found and when you ask for her cabin number at the reception desk, they're not really cooperating, valuing their guest's privacy. And you don't have your badge to flash to force their hand.

In an attempt to at least do something, you take a run back to your cabin, snatch up your mobile phone, switch it on for the first time in days and call your sister.

The phone goes to voicemail after five rings and you wince as you realize it's only five AM back in Birmingham. But damn it; there's no way you can wait another two hours for her to get up. You have to talk to her. This is an emergency and you're sure she'll pick up eventually and agree with you that it really is.

You try again. Five rings and the voicemail. Again...She answers on the second ring, sounding groggy and annoyed.

"This better be important, Matthew. As in life threatening. Do you have any idea what time it is?"

"Hi Niamh dear, I'm sorry, I know, but I'm having a bit of a crisis here...I just saw Alesha..."

She sighs, but gives you no more time to ask the questions you feel you need to ask. Instead, she immediately confirms her involvement in Alesha's presence on this island and blatantly refuses to apologize for breaking her promise to you.

"Look, Niamh, I'm not mad about that. In fact, I think I could use your help. I mean...what has she told you, why is she here? To apologize?"

"Eh...no. She doesn't need to."

Suddenly angry again, you snap. "She bloody well does!"

Yes, you both use the same swear words when you're angry. In fact, you think you taught her that.

"Do not fly off the handle with me Matthew Devlin! You wanted my help? At bloody five AM in the bloody morning? Then you might as well listen when I bloody well offer it!"

You wince at her tone. Even if she's your junior, she has always had a way of admonishing you that left you feeling slightly emasculated.

"Okay, okay. I'm sorry. Just explain why you seem to think she doesn't owe me an apology. Like they all do."

"Bloody hell, brother, you can be a right wanker sometimes, you know that? Has it ever, even once, occurred to you that she might not have known about it? That this brilliant mister Steel of yours just ploughed ahead without ever informing her?"

Truth be told, it hadn't, convinced as you were that the two prosecutors worked too closely together to have any secrets. But then again...what if Niamh's right? What if your anger at her is unfounded and as a result, she's still the sweet wonderful lady you always knew she was?

Well, that means, you idiot, that you hurt her more than the other way around! Dear bloody Lord, what a mess. How to ever fix it? But first...

"How can you be so sure about that?"

"Because she showed up on my doorstep the day before yesterday, frantic, tearful and desperate. Believe it or not Matty boy, but she loves you and misses you. And I won't apologize for telling her where you were and helping her buy a ticket for the first flight to Kingston. She didn't care about the hours, the costs, the last-minute vaccinations, anything...she just wanted to do whatever it takes to get you back. Now you get your thick head out of your even thicker arse and get your girl. And I for one think it's you who needs to be sorry. No matter what happened and I'm not saying I don't understand your feelings, but you hurt a lot of people by pulling this disappearance act and Alesha worst of all."

For a moment, you both remain silent as you let the words of your sister sink in. Frantic. Tearful. Desperate. Love. A combination of factors that made her pack her bags and spend a fortune on a whim, just to find you.

Because she does love you.

Alesha Phillips is here on the island. And she loves you.

The possibilities and the overwhelming need to explore them, right here and now, grip you firmly and after a hasty goodbye and another apology to your beloved and oh so helpful, insightful baby sister, you leave your cabin without a doubt in your mind about what you have to do.

After a few minutes of uncertainty, you spot a forlorn looking, solitary figure sitting in the sand, close to the water's edge, unmoving except for a slight heaving of the shoulders, indicating she's crying.

The crashing of the waves and the sound of her own tears must have made her deaf for any other sounds, because she doesn't look up when you gingerly set yourself down next to her. On a whim, you press a tiny, barely there kiss on her shoulder, before softly saying the words that you wanted to hear from her, but now know you must offer yourself.

"Forgive me, Alesha. I'm so sorry..."


	5. Chapter 5

**Dreadlock holiday chapter 5**

**AN**: I know, I know, I let life take over again. New job and such. Too little time, too much to do, faulty computer, etc…but, FINALLY, for those with a lot of patience, here's the new chapter. With lots of love for my readers (who're hopefully still there) and lots and lots of apologies.

**Disclaimer**: I love them, steal them, play with them and deliver them back to Dick Wolf. What more does he want? Oh well…on with it.

_Alesha's pov again…_

It's the last thing you expected to happen, but it really is. Here, in this romantic setting, Matt has come back to see you, saying the second best words you wanted to hear. Not knowing what to say, you try anyway, hoping the right words will come to you as you go.

"Matt, I..."

However, he cuts you off with a finger against your lips. A jolt shoots through your body at his touch, so gentle, so warm. So welcome.

"Please, Alesha, let me explain, before I lose my nerve altogether. I eh...when things went so badly for me in the courtroom, I was gutted. I never thought the people I trusted, my friends, would stoop this low, ruining everything I've worked so hard for. And I was especially stricken by your silence. To me, at that point, it was clear that you agreed with how James was handling things and I was blind with anger and disappointment that you hadn't done anything to help me, warn me, prepare me."

You want to interrupt, desperate to tell him he's got it all wrong, but he gives you a look so full of regret that you know he's figured that part out for himself.

"I don't know why, but it never occurred to me that James might have gone behind your back, had not told you what he was planning until he caught me off guard. I should have known though. You're not a cruel person, you would never have agreed. I've done you a terrible wrong by putting even a smidgeon of blame upon your shoulders and I sincerely hope you can forgive me. Can you?"

Honestly, you're not sure. Even if you're willing and able to forgive him for blaming you, there's still the hurt of him leaving without saying goodbye, and the anxiety and despair it brought with it. Yet, he's taken this first step and at least you're talking. Keeping up this stubborn, scorned woman's attitude won't get you anywhere.

"I do forgive you Matt. It's just that..."

Unbidden, your eyes start leaking again. Jeez, how much fluid can two small organs produce? You must look a fright by now, going on two drinks, and no sleep or solid food for hours. Matt reaches out his hand and tentatively, as though not to scare you, wipes away your tears. It's an infinitely intimate moment and you momentarily indulge yourself by leaning into his touch.

"It's what, love?"

"I thought I'd lost you."

You sigh, hoping he'll grasp the deeper meaning.

You know he does when his hand, still caressing your cheekbone, now gently cups it to draw you nearer. Looking you straight in the eyes with his own wide open and honest blue orbs, he softly whispers the oh so sweet, oh so welcome words.

"My sweet Alesha. You could never lose me. I could never have stayed away from you for long. I love you too much for that."

He seals the lovely declaration with a brush of his lips against your own. A heat you feared was lost forever flares up in your body at the first hint of contact and you almost forcefully yank his head closer to deepen the connection. With a small groan, he complies, wrapping you close in his embrace, kissing you with all the love he has inside of him, leaving you breathless and utterly content.

A lack of oxygen finally forces you to part, but he does not let go of you. He only draws you in closer and, with a sigh of pure pleasure, you lean back against his chest.

After a while, you get your breathing under control, at least enough to comment on his chosen hideout.

"Well, I can't say I disapprove of your chosen getaway location."

He chuckles, kisses the top of your head.

"No, it's beautiful here. And it has just gotten even better."

Then, after another moment of peaceful silence: "Where are you staying?"

"For tonight and tomorrow night I have a cabin at the resort, after that...I guess I'm homeless."

"I don't mind sharing my cabin with you, love. You know that. How long can you stay?"

"I asked for two extra weeks off, so I can stay until the end of your leave...if you'd want me to."

"Of course I do. Why don't you just go ahead and cancel your reservations now? Get your things now and stay with me?"

"Well, as long as you take the sofa." You joke.

His facial expression is, again, priceless. It's an odd mixture of concern and disappointment. You know he had his hopes up for a romantic evening and truth is, you have no intention of actually banning him to the sofa. You're far too happy to be feeling the slight buzz of upcoming arousal in your body again, to carefully examine your state of mind and find absolutely no panic or disgust at the thought of making love to this man. Your body knows as well as your heart does that there's nothing to fear.

"Eh...yes, of course. By all means, you take the bed. Or just stay in your own cabin, whatever you prefer. So sorry, Lesh, I never meant to presume you would...we would..."

Laughing, you silence him with a soft kiss.

"Matt, stop worrying so much. I was just joking. You're not presuming anything. I will...we will. Gladly and wholeheartedly so."

A smile more beautiful than any example you've seen so far takes over his face. With a whoop of joy, he launches himself at you, kissing you passionately and thoroughly. You answer with a hunger of your own.

In the end, you barely make it to his cabin...and neither one of you even takes a second glance at the sofa...

One beam of intrusive, obnoxious sunshine wakes you the next morning. For a moment, you're completely disoriented, but as one by one, your bodily functions start coming to life, you can only describe every movement as achy. Your muscles are heavy and uncooperative, and your skin is sticky. Plus, there's a particular pleasant tingle in your private regions that tells its own story. All in all, you can only conclude that you feel absolutely, one hundred percent, bloody damn wonderful!

Whatever the rumours you heard about Matt Devlin's skills in the bedroom (and there have been quite a few of those, too many to ring true anyway), they were completely wrong. A gross insult, in a sense that they mostly didn't do him justice. Last night, Matt was sweet, attentive, chivalrous, passionate, inventive, imaginative, incredibly handsome and damn sexy. Not to mention, very careful, all movements stalled until your nod, your sigh, a moan or a soft mewl told him it was okay to proceed.

When he united your bodies for the first time, you started to cry and hastily he pulled back, his anxious eyes searching yours for any signs of pain, fear or discomfort. There were no words you could think of to tell him that there was nothing to worry about, that there were no ill feelings coursing through you whatsoever. In fact, you've never felt more beautiful or adored. It's the magnificence, the sheer brilliance of that moment that brings tears to your eyes. Tears of pure joy that you're here, he's here and you're sharing this experience with each other. Finally. So you just smiled through your tears, caressed his heated face and nodded, pushing up your hips ever so little to literally drive the point home. It worked like a charm and a moment later, he was buried deeply inside of you, completing you, healing you...loving you. As you loved him.

Oh, what a night, what a night!

Languidly, you stretch until your toes curl and then take a look around. Matt is not next to you in the bed and frankly, you miss the close contact between your naked bodies. A quick scan of the room with eyes and ears tells you he's sitting on the porch swing, gently swaying it with one bare foot as he speaks to someone on his mobile. Feeling a little curious, not to mention neglected, you find a clean pair of knickers in your suitcase and pull on his discarded shirt, smelling of the beach, his cologne, him and your lovemaking. You want to drown in the smell. Heck, if you could bottle it, it would sell like hot cakes as an aphrodisiac.

When you step out through the open French doors, he spots you and taps the place next to his to indicate you should join him. When you do, snuggling into his bare chest and breathing in even more of him (another tingling sensation being launched in your centre), he kisses the top of your head, before continuing his conversation with...whoever.

"...Thanks. No really, it means the world to me. And I'm sorry to have you go through this much trouble, I should have reported it, instead of fleeing. It was an error of judgement and I'm happy there won't be any repercussions."

"...oh haha, mate. Like that's anything new anyway. Hey, I have to go now, Alesha's awake and looking at me quite hungrily...for BREAKFAST, you pervert! Yeah...I'll tell her you both say hi! Thanks again, Ronnie, gov. And I'm glad all's forgiven. Bye."

He ends the call and puts the phone on the side table, before turning to you and kissing you greedily and hungrily, his own upcoming arousal again triggering yours. Looks like breakfast is going to have to wait for a while.

Indeed, it's almost an hour later and breakfast is closer to brunch, but neither one of you cares. He's phoned in for room service and you eat at the table on the porch. In between bites of fresh exotic fruit and cornflakes, he tells you about his earlier conversation with the home front. Looks like Natalie Chandler really pulled through for him and has signed off his disappearance as a vacation, never telling the big brass that he never took the time to ask for permission. She just signed a consent form off of the bet. What the bosses higher up the food chain don't know, won't kill them. And so DS Matt Devlin is still a DS when the two of you return in two weeks.

He's also talked to Ronnie and he's quite happy that he's breached the gap between himself and his mate.

Which leaves only James to deal with, but you're not pushing the subject. Much as you respect your senior in the prosecutor's office, you're not too fond of him either at this very moment and though you're not one to hold grudges (and neither is Matt), this time you do feel that James needs to meet Matt and yourself halfway. Where Ronnie is most ready to admit he fouled up, James is not easily inclined to be the first to right a wrong. This time, you'll force his hand.

As your brand new boyfriend holds a slice of grapefruit to your mouth and you take it, licking the sweet juice from his fingers (his eyes glaze over immediately), all thoughts of bosses, work and cold, dreary London vanish into thin air.

There are two more weeks of vacation to enjoy.

Two days later, it's a clear and sunny Sunday morning and, on a whim, Matt asks you to attend mass at the small white chapel he's noticed upon arrival. Though most of the islanders are Protestant, a fait bunch hold on to the Catholic faith and Matt has found a warm welcome in their midst. And when he explains, it sounds pretty nice indeed.

"It's the sweetest place you've ever seen, Lesh and here, they attend mass like it's a big party. So refreshing from the stifling traditions we're used to. Would you join me, please?"

You have, of course, always know he's born and raised in the Catholic tradition and to be honest, you sometimes envy him for his unwavering faith, despite of what has happened in his childhood and despite the many times your jobs tell a different story. But you won't think twice about following Matt in this if it's important to him. Perhaps you'll even find your own faith back. You kind of hope you will.

And indeed, he's right. With the swinging gospel music, the little white building is shaking with joyous celebration. Surely this is the way to express yourself. Assuming there really is a God, He too had to be enjoying this feast in His name. As you leave the chapel, you give Matt a beaming smile to indicate you have no regrets coming along.

The priest, a small elderly man with a mop of curly white hair, a parchment looking crumpled face and a lot of genuine warmth in his brown eyes, greets all his parishioners at the door as they pass, locals and wandering tourists alike.

Recognizing Matt from his earlier visits, he greets your boyfriend like he's the lost sheep in his colourful flock. When he in turn gets introduced to you, his smile widens.

"Ah...you never told me young man that you were here on your honeymoon. And what a pretty wife you have."

Matt is hasty to deny the man's assumption, but he won't be deterred. Instead, his smile suddenly turns quite mischievous.

"There's still time, my son. There's still time."

With those words, he strides off, back in the direction of the open church doors.

Grinning, Matt takes your hand and together, you wander off to find a place to have lunch. At a quaint little fish restaurant with a splendid view of the bay area, you enjoy a wonderful light meal, fully at ease with your company, your surroundings and life in general. Matt too looks tan and healthy, all worries and their causes forgotten, deemed unimportant and trivial.

Still, he's been a bit quiet since you've left church and you can tell his mind is spinning a hundred miles a minute. Something's got him preoccupied, but since it's clear it's nothing troublesome, you don't pry. Just because you're a couple now, it shouldn't mean you need to know his innermost thoughts and feelings every single second of every single day. You don't like being smothered and you're not about to do the same to him. You're sure he'll tell you when he thinks he needs to.

And indeed, halfway through his crab cakes, he suddenly leans in and grabs your hand. The look on his face is so peculiar, you stop eating with your fork dangling halfway between your plate and your mouth.

"Let's do it!"

You snort at the image popping into your mind. Very R-rated.

"What, right here on the table? Quite a spectacle that would make!"

"No, yuk, Lesh! That's gross! And not what I meant either."

You grin at him innocently.

"Than what do you mean?"

"I mean...let's make this our honeymoon. For real."

"You're serious!"

To be honest, you're caught completely off guard. Your mind already had some trouble adjusting from being anxious and desperate on Wednesday to determined and victorious on Thursday and to deliriously happy after that. Now, Matt wants to up the ante again by suggesting you get married? And not just in a year, but in a few days?

You wait for your heart to accelerate, for alarm bells to go off in your brain, for any sign of your body that tells you it's time to run!

It's not coming.

Yes, your heart rate is increasing, your pulse throbbing like mad, your head is swimming, but there's no panic. The only way to describe it is the same feeling you had when you made love to him for the first time, three nights ago and all the nights (and mornings, afternoons...) since.

It's euphoria. Joy. Bliss.

So what's keeping you really?

You grin back at him.

"Yes! Let's do it!"

Now it's his turn to look surprised. As your consent sinks in, he leaps from the table to gather you in his arms, kissing you passionately.

"Come on, let's get this in motion before one of us comes to our senses."

"Excuse me! I've never lost mine. I truly want this. I genuinely want to marry you."

He concedes, pulling you close to him as he leaves some Jamaican Dollars on the table.

"I know, love. So do I. I want us to be husband and wife and what other surroundings could be more perfect?"

Hand in hand you walk back to the chapel, where the same priest is leisurely strolling through the annex ancient graveyard, tending to each headstone with care. He exudes so much inner peace, you're almost reluctant to disturb him, but as he spots you, he's quick to approach you.

"Good afternoon, dear people."

"Good afternoon, Father. Sorry to disturb you."

"Nonsense, the dead have already arrived with our Heavenly Father, they're in safe hands. It's the living who should come first. What may I do for you, children?"

As soon as you inform him about your plans, he's eager to agree.

"Marvellous! Truly a blessed occasion, one I have not had the blessing to be a part of in quite a while. It would be my honour to join you in the most sacred of bonds as established by our Lord. Please come in and we'll discuss details."

There's not much to discuss. You'll need witnesses, but Father Lawrence is quick to assure you that within his community, his family, there should be no problem. People, he claims, are always in for a celebration and what could be more appropriate than the union of two kindred spirits?

And you'll need legal documents too, but that's no problem either. The British Embassy in Kingston opens early in the morning and since you're both legal officers of The Commonwealth, it should be fairly easy to get copies of birth certificates and other legal paraphernalia. And since Jamaica is still part of said Commonwealth, there's no need to get the wedding documents legalized either. Your marriage will be as legal in the UK as it is over here.

That's settled. Next Friday morning you're getting joined in Holy matrimony. That'll leave you with another week of real honeymoon. And for now, it leaves you with enough time to prepare.

And buy a white dress.


	6. Chapter 6

Dreadlock holiday chapter 6

**A/N**: Here it is, the sixth and final (so sorry) chapter of this story. Hope you like it. Hope you liked it in total. Thanks for all the positive reviews. And to make up for yet another story coming to an end: a new story is already halfway done and I'll post the first chapter soon, I promise!

**Disclaimer**: I could go all Smeagol/Gollum on you and claim they're mine, but we all know how he ended up. So no, Dick Wolf can have his precious characters. And Tolkien can keep Gollum, just to make sure I have all bases covered. Oh well…on we go…

As it quickly turns out, it's still quite a hassle to get things going. There are a lot of things you don't need to plan of course (like guests lists, invitations, cakes, party locations, etc.), but that doesn't mean that everything else doesn't take its time. First of all, the good people at the embassy make all the prejudices against civil servants (and Caribbean ones at that) come true: as laid back as the rest of the island; words as 'fast' or 'speedy' or 'now' fail to impress and therefore it takes the entire Monday morning for them to process your requests. And then you leave without any results as, due to the time difference, the offices in the UK are already closed.

You separate your ways for a while as Matt catches a cab back to discuss proceedings with Father Lawrence while you roam the shops to find a dress. You purposefully avoid the bridal stores, since you're absolutely don't like the stereotypical puffy, fluffy lacy stuff. You want something simple, yet elegant, something you can wear again on another occasion.

In the end, at a small, unpresumptuous little boutique, you find the perfect dress. White, strapless, with a tight bodice and a flowing skirt to your ankles, it's not much to look at on the hanger, but ever so pretty on a dark haired, dark skinned lady with some subtle curves. Yes, you can see yourself getting married in this outfit. The kind owner refers you to a shoe store where you find the perfect pair of strappy sandals to go with it.

With time to spare (you're supposed to meet Matt for dinner in another three hours), you arrive back at the resort, where you decide to indulge in a little pampering at the resort's spa. When you tell them about your upcoming wedding, the girls insist on giving you the full treatment at a special offer discount and so for the next hours, you get a mud bath, a hot stone massage, a facial, a manicure and pedicure and a hair mask, leaving you glowing from head to toe. But then again, your skin already has a rather healthy glow about it the last few days and that comes from a treatment none of these kind ladies can top.

Still, when you walk into the restaurant, Matt wolf whistles when he sees you come in. You grin as you hurry to meet up with him, kissing him softly. Gallantly, he helps you settle in your chair.

"Wow, Lesh, you look amazing. Have I proposed to you yet?"

"Not today," you answer lightly, amazed at the surge of happiness gripping you at the mere thought that this man will be your husband in merely four days time.

If the people at the embassy will hurry up!

"But you will still marry me, right?"

"Very well, if you insist." You sigh dramatically.

"But I do," he exclaims dramatically, "Before some other lucky bastard comes in and sweeps you away."

"Don't worry about that too much, love. I set my standards pretty high and I'm not easily being swept away by just any bloke."

"So I'm pretty special."

He's needling you for compliments now, as eagerly as a puppy. If he had a tail, it would wag like mad. But he at least does have the eyes.

And the hands...the lips...

"You're very special, Matt Devlin. I love you and I'm counting the hours until we're husband and wife."

Luckily, your food arrives, saving you from becoming way too sappy for your own taste. Starving after a "cleansing" diet of wheat grass juice and an assortment of other disgusting yet apparently very healthy concoctions at the spa, you tuck into your meal with a gusto, not caring about the grease or the calories. You've lost quite some weight the last few days sulking and should you break out in acne on your wedding day, you could always opt to wear a veil. Your boyfriend/fiancé/groom just raises one eyebrow in surprise and chuckles.

"Wow, Lesh...might as well marry Ronnie if you're stuffing your face like that."

"By all means, you'll make an excellent third Mrs. Brooks."

Grinning as he knows he's defeated, Matt shakes his head and takes a perfectly measured, controlled bite of his own rabbit food. You let him. Some arguments are just not worth having. Or maybe for the make-up sex...hmmm...

In the next few days, after some frantic running around the centre of Kingston and some hasty e-mails and phone calls to the mother land, everything falls together and with a sigh of relief, the two of you leave the British Embassy on Thursday afternoon with a manila folder with all needed documents and certificates, signed, sealed and delivered, tucked under Matt's arm.

In order to preserve some sort of tradition, Father Lawrence offers you a room in his home next to the church for the night before the wedding. Knowing very well of course that you're by no accounts a blushing maiden, he does frown upon the modern idea that husband and wife should see each other on their wedding day, before the ceremony has started, let alone arrive in the same car as if this is no more than a formality.

In all honesty, you would have preferred to fall asleep in Matt's embrace, as you've very fast gotten used to, but you're not into hurting this kind man's feelings and you do kind of like to go with some traditions, as you have to forego on so many of them already. Besides, after tonight, you'll get to spend all your nights wrapped up in the arms of your beloved. Surely, you're not so desperate you can't sleep without clinging to you man?

Well, truth be told, you really don't sleep that well. Maybe it's the hardness of the small, simple cot, so narrow after the soft, queen sized bed in your room (where your husband to be now tosses and turns alone) or maybe it truly is the lack of warmth his presence provides. Or perhaps it's the million and one thoughts invading your mind from all directions, varying from the practicality of your union (where will you live, what to do about the cat, will you take his last name, both in private as well as career wise?) to the emotional (will we make it, am I cut out to be a copper's wife, how about kids?).

The buzz of your phone takes you out of your reverie. You grab the little device and smile as you read Matt's text.

Bed's cold without u.

Miss u. Xoxo

You quickly reply.

Miss u 2.

Just 1 night.

2gether 4ever. X

His reply comes within a minute.

No cold feet?

You answer with an undignified "Never!"

His reassurance ("My neither. Love you.") makes you smile. You send him another kiss and after that, do manage to catch some sleep before a few hours later, a beautiful sunshine and Father Lawrence both come to wake you on what should become the most beautiful day of your life.

Much to your surprise, Father Lawrence's maid, a plump, black woman with a sweet natured spirit, has already laid out your dress and shoes and has drawn you a bath. Though you prefer to have taken a quick refreshing shower, you're not about to hurt the lady's feelings and so you sponge yourself off and get dressed. By lack of jewellery, you opt for a myriad of colourful local flowers, tucking some of them in your pinned up hair and making an impromptu bouquet out of the rest. When your outfit is done, you know you couldn't have looked any better in a true wedding gown. Instead, you resemble an exotic princess, or so your sweet hostess tells you. When you kindly ask her if she would also stand in for you as matron of honour, a genuine tear escapes her kind brown eyes and she nods.

"Gladly, my child. You make such a pretty bride. Now, let's get some breakfast inside you while I go check if the groom has shown up already."

For the first time since you've made your decision to get married, a flock of frantic butterflies scurries the inside of your stomach, making swallowing of the wonderful fruit salad you're having for breakfast rather difficult.

You're quite alone in the narrow kitchen and once you've finished your breakfast, you're getting a little fidgety. Like everything else in the priest's household, the room as almost Spartan, so there's nothing in here to distract yourself with, unless you want to go wash the dishes. But the meagre collection of cups and saucers neatly stacked in the sink is hardly worthwhile and you're afraid to stain your (so far) immaculate white dress.

Just as you're about to break the promise of staying put, Father Lawrence steps in, already dressed for the occasion and delighted when he sees you all ready to go.

"Come, my child. Your groom has arrived and it is time to get the blessed union of the pair of you underway."

Smiling and using the little bouquet to hide the slight trembling of your hands, you follow him out of the kitchen and out the front door to meet with your groom.

Matt is wearing a light gray summer suit with a sky blue shirt which matches his eyes in colour if not in sparkle. They light up even more as you approach him. His jaw slackens slightly and you smile at the unspoken compliment. Rendering a man speechless, especially a suave, smooth talking specimen like Matt, is always an accomplishment to be proud of.

Laughing, you hurry into his open arms, shutting his mouth with one finger.

"Careful, my love, you wouldn't want to drool all over your suit. You look very handsome by the way."

"And you...oh Lesh...I..."

Again...speechless.

"So you like?"

"I love...love the dress, love you."

"Well then, let's get married."

A week later...

How different is your flight home from the one you took a little over two weeks ago. You're utterly relaxed, left hand with the simple gold wedding band entwined with your husband's, who has fallen asleep in the luxury seat in first class. Your ticket was pre booked in first class, but when you wanted to exchange Matt's for a first class tickets, problems ensued...until you told them of your wedding. Moods lifted, the sweet attendants swopped his ticket without charge. Or perhaps the fact his usual beaming smile is all the more prominent, helped some too. Either way, he's right here next to you, looking younger than his years, utterly relaxed and happy. Simply beautiful.

Your husband.

And you can't stop glancing from your ring to his face and back...Mrs. Matt Devlin. Alesha Devlin. God, that sounds good. It feels good too. Every pun intended.

After you came back from the church, the first surprise you encountered as soon as Matt carried you over the threshold (well, that really was the first surprise, but whatever), was the tray on the bedside table with a complimentary bottle of champagne in a cooler and bowls of strawberries, chocolate sauce and whipped cream next to it. Courtesy of the resort staff in honour of the newlyweds.

After devouring this lovely treat (as well as each other; several times) you cuddled up against his chest, and started to discuss the practicalities of your marriage.

It was decided that Matt would move in with you for the time being. Your flat is not that much larger than his, but it is in a slightly better neighbourhood and closer to work for the both of you. He will bring his cat and take from his furniture the things he can't possible live without (which isn't much) and put the rest in storage. In the meantime, you would go look for a bigger place for the two of you, taking an expansion of your two-person household into the account.

Having kids was a slightly more difficult conversation, since Matt didn't believe he would make a good enough father, having had only very bad examples growing up. You vehemently denied he would be a bad daddy, knowing he had every character aspect it took to make an exceptional father and role model. At the end of a rather heated discussion, you decided to let the chips fall as they may. If you were blessed with any children, than you would raise them with love and care and learn along the way. If not...you would find other ways to make your marriage work.

Back home, you managed to keep your mouths shut about your marriage for a few days. You sent out pretty invitations to your coworkers, friends and family to gather at one of your favourite restaurants, making them think it was just a little belated birthday party. It makes sense, because you didn't really celebrate your birthday the month before; having come down with a nasty cold and after that, being buried underneath a pile of work.

You have a beamer set up to show the pictures of your holiday, including the ones taken at your wedding. When everyone is gathered, you casually show your snapshots. It all looks innocent enough, just your standard holiday pics, until the first ones come up with you wearing your pretty summery white dress. Niamh gasps, being the first one to catch on, especially when seeing the next picture, showing her brother in his light summer suit, carnation in his lapel, staring rather dumbfounded (and endearing) at his bride.

As the next picture (the two of you standing in front of father Lawrence, holding hands) comes up, Ronnie lurches forward to pause the laptop.

"Did we just see what I think we just saw?"

Grinning madly at his mate, Matt answers.

"Depends on what you think you just saw."

Niamh cuts in.

"Did my big brother have to gall to get married hundreds of kilometres away from here, without his family and friends around?"

"Eh…yes?"

"I can't believe this."

"Perhaps you'll believe this?"

He proudly takes your hand, reaching in his pocket with the other one to pull out your ring, and gently replaces it on your wedding finger. Your left hand, as his Catholic tradition indicates. That has never been an issue with you, you gladly adapt, knowing his faith means a lot more to him than to you. You've already agreed that, should you have any kids, they too will be baptized in a Catholic church.

For one second, you can hear a pin drop. Then all hell breaks loose as everyone falls all over you with well wishes and gentle scolding about them not being there. But, since you reckoned something like this would happen, you prepared this party well. At a sign of Matt, the staff bring out a beautiful wedding cake, decorated with delicate marzipan flowers resembling your exotic wedding bouquet. As an extra gesture to the ones who are really upset not to hear you exchange your vows, you pull George aside.

"George, how long has it been since you've presided a wedding?"

Surprised, but obviously touched, your boss readily agrees to help you perform a little impromptu ceremony, never mind the fact that is was legal all along.

Matt too joins in and, with everyone you both love, gathered in a circle around you, you both repeat your vows of eternal love and dedication. When George again declares you husband and wife, all females are blubbering and all males stand proudly by. But the real surprise of the evening is James, whose congratulations are as sincere as his apologies to your husband. And as the ultimate gesture, he ends up picking up the tab, never even wincing at the amount.

Slightly buzzed and more than a little happy, you head home. All's well if it ends well. And you couldn't have pictured a better ending than this one.

And you lived happily ever after…

THE END

Again, thanks for reading. Reviews much appreciated.


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